


Heaven Help a Fool (Who Falls In Love)

by RoseGoldRogue



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Flower Symbolism, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Magic, Magic Jaskier, Minor Injuries, Woods Witch Jaskier, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseGoldRogue/pseuds/RoseGoldRogue
Summary: It’s not like he had set out to become the local woods witch, but, Jaskier thought, he had moved into an overgrown patch of forest next to Posada and immediately started doing magic. So, really, his current reputation was all on him.He had, admittedly, had worse reputations.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 39
Kudos: 527
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #001





	Heaven Help a Fool (Who Falls In Love)

**Author's Note:**

> RIP my keyboard. Written for the first Flash Fic competition in the world's coolest Witcher Discord server.
> 
> I am, and will remain Magic!Jaskier trash.
> 
> And, you know who you are. This is all your fault.

It’s not like he had set out to become the local woods witch, but, Jaskier thought, he had moved into an overgrown patch of forest next to Posada and immediately started doing magic. So, really, his current reputation was all on him.

He had, admittedly, had worse reputations.

It had taken him the better part of a month to build his home, even with the assistance of both his magic and, after the eventual warming of the townsfolk to him, several stout carpenters and roofers. His exacting standards hadn’t endeared him to the other men, who had already been wary of any outsiders, particularly those with magic and a penchant for finer fabrics. They had been reluctantly won over by a combination of his coin, his potions and, he suspected, his singing voice.

The resulting structure had been more than worth it.

Jaskier looked admiringly around at his home and smiled. It was a wonder, even amongst the beautiful and unlikely architecture of Posada.

It was set entirely amongst the trees, with the exception of his bathing and more personal area, which were cleverly disguised by a flourishing and vibrant garden beneath the trunk of a great horse chestnut. The structure curled in a spiral upwards, each room higher and slightly offset from the last. An ornate wooden cage sat beside the first, and largest room, attached to a pulley system that wasn’t actually functional, but had served Jaskier well in buying a few moments of time as would-be attackers had struggled to work it and failed.

The structure formed one and a half complete rotations around the huge trunk of an ancient pine, culminating in Jaskier’s bedroom, the second largest room, which was set into the reverse side of the tree. The room extended out to form a balcony with arching, graceful fencing weaved with ivy surrounding it. There were fanciful decorations added in every conceivable place; a furtive wooden squirrel tucked into the corner of a support beam, an obsidian owl perched above a doorway, a lyre carved into a roof slate… Easily dismissed as frippery.

Each was in fact a powerful spell condensed into a tangible form. Most were protective in nature, designed to keep his home, himself and his guests from harm, but some were amplifiers, helping to grow and empower his magic. Before settling here Jaskier had not had the stability to create such spells, well, not since school, and, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t been the most proactive of students so as to try them then.

It had certainly been a change. To watch his magic blossom after being stifled, after Jaskier had tried desperately to wrest it down and deny his gifts. So many years of pretending to be a somewhat humble bard until he had met…

Jaskier shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. No. He hadn’t heard anything from the Witcher since their parting. It was clear that the other man did not waste his thoughts on him any longer. If he ever had at all.

Still, Jaskier smiled to himself, lounging on his balcony in the pleasant summer morning air, the look on the man’s face when he had rid himself of the bonds after they had been captured by the elves had been well worth the admission of his magical talents.

Their bond with the exiled elves had been partially what had drawn Jaskier back to Posada to settle. Filavandrel had led his people away from the town, but had not strayed too far, and so Jaskier had kept in touch with him and his people, occasionally assisting them if a problem needed a magical hand. It was, he thought, possibly a good idea to keep in their good books in case Toruviel ever got her way and the war she desperately wanted.

Though of course, he had carefully kept his friendship with the elves from the townsfolk. Filavandrel understood the necessary unpleasantness of playing nice with the locals, though Jaskier did not go out of his way to form bonds of friendship with any of them. However, he often sang the children elven tales and used their tinctures on the women who came to him; those that his actions had driven off were the ones who he monitored with careful suspicion.

He strummed idly at his lute, fingers finding familiar chords and breathed in deeply. What was on the agenda for today, again? Ah, yes, a ‘fertility charm’ for the baker’s young wife, who had no desire to have her first child in her teenage years but whose husband was that kind of controlling hideous brute who felt entitled to supersede her choices. 

A pair of earrings, perhaps? To turn his lust from her until she either left him or chose to have his child. Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. Too obvious. If the baker was prone to jealousy an unexplained new set of jewellery could put her in danger, or under undue suspicion. So a bracelet or a necklace wouldn’t work either, in that case. Certainly not a conventional ring, and he highly doubted the young woman had any piercings in the less traditional places.

Ah! A hairpin! Something simple and easily concealed, with a wooden carving to contain the spell. Now, for the spell itself, what would he need? Impatiens, of course, for _touch me not_ . Yellow carnations, for _disdain_ , and maybe tansy, just in case.

Jaskier put his lute in it’s leather carrier and slung it across his back before he made his way down to his garden, collecting a small woven basket on the way. The newest addition, a rare strain of Echinacea from Nilfgaard, seemed to be growing well. He crouched down next to the new buds and smiled, gently stroking it with just a wisp of magic.

“Look how lovely you are! Of course, you have good neighbours to set an example,” Jaskier flattered the overgrown lungwort plant next to the new arrival. His rounds to collect samples and compliment his plants was interrupted by the tinkling of high bells through the air.

An alarm spell, set on the edge of the track that led up to his house from the east. The note told him that the party contained at least one person he knew, and the length of the sound meant that there were six people approaching. Jaskier sighed and placed his basket underneath his cinnamon rose bush.

“Look after it,” he told the plant, sternly. “Or I’ll discover a liking for rosehip tea.”

Jaskier made his way to meet his unexpected guests, brushing down his trousers as he walked. He had picked a lovely spring green doublet for today, which matched quite pleasantly with the olive undertone of his trousers, paired with a cream coloured shirt, open at the chest of course. It was summer, after all.

He leaned idly against a tree to wait, wondering what particular crisis had brought so many people to his door. It was unlikely to be anything good, if the party was six strong. Had he paid his taxes last quarter? 

Probably not.

Pasting a disarming smile on his face, Jaskier summoned up his magic just in case as the thundering of hooves came closer.

“Sorcerer! This man is gravely injured!” A large, grey bearded man hollered, rounding the corner ahead of the rest of the group, barely slowing before his mount to a stop. Jaskier’s heart sank. He wasn’t a particularly talented healer, and if this man was in a bad way, he was likely beyond the former bard’s skill to mend.

As the remainder of the party galloped into the clearing, Jaskier caught sight of one of the horses and felt his blood freeze in his veins.

_No. Oh gods, no. It couldn’t be._

And then he spotted the motionless figure held mostly upright on the too familiar mare’s back.

Even after a few years, he would have recognised Geralt of Rivia anywhere. Even unconscious, singed and bleeding at the End of the World. Maybe especially unconscious, singed and bleeding at the End of the World, given his history.

Unbidden, a strangled sound of horror and grief wrenched from his throat. 

It took several men to drag Geralt down from his horse. Jaskier watched frozen, as the Witcher was hauled bodily towards him by three men.

“He were found early this morn, in a bad way. Can barely open his eyes, and th’ only sense we could get from ‘im was your name,” The bearded man told him, warily sympathetic. “Figured it were best to bring ‘im to you, wizard.”

 _My name_ , Jaskier thought, numbly. _He wanted his last words to be my name_.

It was ridiculous, of course. Probably he had heard that Jaskier had settled nearby. But the jolt of hope was tantalising. It was enough of a shock to rouse him into action, examining the injuries evident on Geralt’s body. Burns, lacerations and a wealth of bruises already forming across the man’s skin.

Too many to heal individually.

“I need to get him into a bath, come with me,” Jaskier told the men holding Geralt. He waved a hand towards the others. “There’s my stable, a few yards to the west. You can feed and water your horses there,” he eyed the assembled men, a collection of the town’s strongest, threateningly. “Leave his horse, or else I shall come for her.”

Gratifyingly, at least one shivered in fear.

Jaskier pivoted quickly on his heel, beckoning to the others. “This way.”

It took all four of them to haul Geralt into Jaskier’s bathtub and two of them to divest him of his charred, ruined clothing, apart from his smallclothes, which were blessedly intact. Despite the manhandling, the man still did not wake. Not a good sign, for someone as paranoid as Geralt. Jaskier worried his lower lip between his teeth in anxiety. The townsfolk, having done their part, fled quickly, suddenly unconcerned about the health of the Witcher.

The once-bard turned on the faucet at the foot of the tub, grateful for his foresight in bewitching the tap to turn out hot water by default. He cast his eyes around the garden, mentally compiling a list of what he would need to try and heal Geralt. No broken bones that he could see, which was a small mercy, but far too many cuts and contusions for comfort. Burns, severe ones. A concussion too, more than likely. The Witcher was veritably covered with a layer of grime, it would be a battle to prevent him from succumbing to infection if he didn’t first perish from his other injuries.

_What caused such injury to you, my friend?_

He was no Witcher, with their eidetic memory for beasts and dark creatures, and his poor attempt at a copy of a bestiary was locked in his library, and was hugely incomplete. Without knowing what creature had caused the wounds healing them would be more difficult. He would have to rely on general cures and best guesses until Geralt woke up enough to tell him. 

_If Geralt woke up_ , a traitorous voice in his head suggested.

Jaskier took a silver pendant from around his neck and held it to Geralt’s forehead, brushing back a filthy lock of salt-white hair to reach the skin. He allowed his magic to leach the pain and injury from the other man’s mind, the pendant reflecting a soft golden light beneath his palms as he worked. Jaskier breathed deeply as the glow faded, feeling Geralt’s natural healing take over, and moved immediately on to the Witcher’s ruined torso. It was always best to let the person’s own healing deal with head injuries, Jaskier remembered from his schooling.

Up close, the burns and cuts littered across the Witcher’s upper body and arms seemed somehow worse. Nearly every inch of skin was marred with blood, bruise or blister. A wave of panic and horror rose in Jaskier’s throat as he swept his eyes down Geralt’s body. He couldn’t recall seeing such wounds on a living man. The pain had to be excruciating. 

Blood leaked sluggishly out of a large set of open slices above his pectoral, the wide cuts looked as though something had tried to claw out his heart and had almost succeeded.

Jaskier waved off the faucet as the water reached waist high on Geralt and tapped the side of the bath to activate the stasis charm he had placed underneath the lip to keep the water warm. Frantically, Jaskier cast his eyes around the flowers and plants closest to his bathing area for something he could use as a conduit. Daisies, lily of the Nile, a rainbow of zinnia flowers…

Red chrysanthemums. _Love, deep passion_ , his mind provided. Well. That would work.

He rounded the tub to collect a vibrant crimson bloom, pausing briefly to gather some of the lavender nearby and breathe it in deeply, hoping to calm his racing heart. He crushed the lavender against his wrists and threw the remainder into the water by Geralt’s hip, exhaling shakily.

Jaskier placed the chrysanthemum on Geralt’s heart and desperately called out to his magic.

_I’m not a healer, I know. But this man is worth more to me than anyone. I love him, though heavens know I’ve tried to stop. Please, heal him. Please._

Agonizing moments passed, thick, slow and dark like molasses, before finally, _finally,_ the golden glow of his magic poured into the petals of the flower. 

He could feel Geralt’s heartbeat only faintly, quick like hummingbird wings and swallowed thickly. He must have lost so much blood already, for it to be so weak. Jaskier focused, screwing his eyes shut, willing the magic to close the cuts and punctures across the Witcher’s upper body.

Slowly, painfully, the worst of the lacerations closed.

Jaskier opened his eyes, power still leaching from his hands, to see the warm light of his magic curling across Geralt. He exhaled quietly in relief, body slumping over the side of the bath, and let his forehead rest briefly on his arm.

He could no longer feel the soft velvet of petals beneath his palms. Instead, he could feel the hot, firm skin of Geralt’s chest.

Astonished, his head flew up, eyes centred on the pale expanse beneath his hands. It was rare, the product of a wizard or witch pouring their heart into a spell beyond all hope. A lover’s blessing, one of his teacher’s had called it. A sign that the person was so truly beloved that the spell cast on them had been blessed by magic itself, to save the heart of the mage who had bestowed theirs to the other being.

There, bright and intricate on Geralt’s chest, was a perfect image of the single beautiful red chrysanthemum.

 _Well, bollocks_ , Jaskier thought woodenly. 

A panicked hysteria crawled through his chest as his mind spun wildly, trying to think of how he would explain the impromptu tattoo to Geralt when he woke up. Did he know about lover’s blessings? It didn’t seem like something that would have come up in the curriculum at Kaer Morhen.

“Next time, I’m just letting you die, you bastard,” Jaskier told Geralt, exhaustedly. “What a mess.”

Jaskier drew back his hands and frowned at the blood and soot marking his now slightly soggy sleeves. Sighing, he shrugged out of his doublet and threw it aside as a lost cause as he launched to his feet. He tapped the faucet to further fill the bath, now that the water wouldn’t lead to further blood loss.

Really, he needed to go and get his supplies. He had plenty of healing tinctures and salves to ward off infection in his stores that Geralt would doubtless need, given the state of him. A blood replenishing potion too, if he would drink it, which was, granted, unlikely.

The water cut off with a gurgle, signaling that the bath was filled and startling Jaskier from his thoughts. 

His magic had trickled down into the water, lending it a pleasant shimmer as it swirled around tiny lavender buds. Reaching into a small basket at the head of the bath Jaskier pulled free several small bottles. He assessed each one and plucked two from the haul. Into the bath he poured a small amount of a fragrant mix, one with the strong scent of wintergreen and peppermint, before reaching for a stoppered glass bottle. Carefully he allowed a few oily drops to splash into the water as the herbal smell of rosemary and thyme filled the air. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached for a third small container and decanted a glug of chamomile extract into the bath, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

Jaskier sat down heavily next to the bath, draping his arm around the cool edge as his hand kissed the water’s surface, running the fingers of his other hand fretfully through his hair. The bright light filtering through the trees told him that it was only early afternoon. 

Geralt of Rivia had been back in his life for _at most_ five hours and it had already resulted in unprecedented chaos.

Distracted by his catastrophizing, he didn’t notice the twitching of Geralt’s facial muscles into a frown as the Witcher’s eyes flickered open.

“Jaskier?”

The sound of Geralt’s voice, rough with pain and disuse, shocked Jaskier from his reverie. The Witcher was staring at him, expression torn between confusion and agony, but wonderfully, incredibly alive.

“Geralt,” Jaskier began, voice breaking with relief. He trailed off, unable to speak without risking a torrent of emotion spilling forth. The other man looked down at himself, noticing the fragrant water surrounding him.

“You’re… healing me?” He asked, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“No, I’m making you into a stew,” Jaskier sniped at him, abruptly too tired. “Of course I am you great lummox! You were dragged here half burnt to a crisp and bleeding out on half the townsfolk -”

“The Ifrit,” Geralt said, fury crossing his face. He gripped the sides of the bath and began to lift himself up, wincing. “I need to -”

Jaskier launched himself around the bath, shoving Geralt back into the water with a firm hand on his chest.

“You _need_ to stay in the bloody healing bath so you don’t _die_ ,” Jaskier told, exasperatedly. Geralt bared his teeth at him in response. Jaskier looked unimpressed. The two men stared each other down for several long moments until Geralt relented and settled back into the water.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes before remembering his hand on Geralt’s chest. The one covering the very new, very bright lover’s mark.

The bard squeaked and suddenly pulled away.

“Supplies! I need to. Go. For supplies,” Jaskier babbled, voice high in panic. _Oh gods, Geralt was going to murder him_. “Stay there, don’t drown.”

Not waiting for Geralt’s reaction, Jaskier fled the bathing garden, face aflame. He ran to the wooden cage at the foot of the tree, heart beating wildly as he stepped in and activated the spell to take him to his storeroom. He lent back against the curled vines and thought.

Probably, Geralt would notice the giant fucking flower tattoo on his chest. More than likely, he would assume it had something to do with Jaskier’s magic. Did he already have one? Yennefer was horrifyingly powerful and Geralt being mortally wounded was at least a bi-annual occurrence. Possibly she had told him about them, in any case. The cage shuddered to a stop and opened into a small, dark room. Jaskier stepped out, sighing.

Total denial was out of the question, then, he decided, beginning to pull various tinctures, salves and potions from the haphazard shelves of his storeroom. He hunted around for the woven knapsack he kept in the room and after finding it wedged behind a box of raspberry tea leaves, carefully started placing his precious haul inside it. 

He had survived Geralt leaving him once. If he told him the truth and the Witcher ran off, well. He would survive it again. The other man would forgive him for the accidental tattoo, given that he had just saved his life. Hopefully.

Jaskier placed the last item - a small carved bone acorn - in the bag. He stood silently in the room for a few long moments, fear and nervousness coiling in his gut, aware that he was only delaying the inevitable. Geralt couldn’t be trusted to put his health over his job for any significant amount of time, and he certainly wasn’t known for his patience and even temper.

Reluctantly, Jaskier sent a small pulse of magic into the cage carving on the door frame and watched as the door opened into the cage. He stepped in and activated the spell to descend again, rubbing his eyes tiredly as it sped him back to the ground.

His body felt heavy with dread and guilt as he made his way back to the bathing area. The marking wasn’t entirely his fault, being an involuntary result of saving Geralt’s life and apparently magic itself lending a hand. But the likelihood of the Witcher understanding that seemed slim in the face of the indelible mark of Jaskier’s unrequited love being permanently branded on his skin.

Geralt’s eyes focussed immediately on Jaskier as he reached the edge of the bathing garden and Jaskier felt his heart immediately stutter. Geralt’s expression was unreadable. He was amazingly still submerged in the healing water and had, perhaps more shockingly, taken the time to scrub off most of the dirt and soot from his partially healed skin and his hair.

Apropos of nothing, Jaskier threw a potion towards Geralt’s face, which he caught reflexively.

“Blood replenisher. It tastes foul but it's worth it,” Jaskier told him, pulling a second, much larger bottle from the bag. “You can wash it down with this if you want. Homemade elderflower cordial, from one of our elven friends. Though made with my plants, of course!”

Jaskier paused as Geralt chugged the potion, grimacing in disgust as he finished it.

“What the fuck do you put in that thing?”

The mage handed him the other bottle, tapping his lips as though thinking.

“Citrus, a bit of kale, a little garlic. Mostly cow’s blood,” Jaskier told him, grinning as Geralt desperately drank the cordial.

“It tastes like death,” the Witcher told him tersely.

“You would know,” the bard shot back. “Given your incredible ability to nearly die once a month.”

Geralt glared at him but seemed unwilling to continue the argument. It would, even for him, be a bit of a stretch to fight against his proclivity in being mortally wounded, given the current situation.

Jaskier set about pouring the potions into the bath, turning the water a milky green as the Witcher watched him suspiciously. The younger man retrieved the bone acorn and cupped it between his hands. He whispered the arcane words softly and blew gently on the carved charm, turning it to dust in his hands. As he released it into the water, a wave of glittering motes spread out, glowing as bright as fragments of stars before vanishing.

Where there had once been hideous gashes and cuts, raw burns and deep punctures was now a collection of scars and fresh healed skin. Geralt stared down at his body in amazement before his eyes alighted on Jaskier, who looked drawn and barely conscious. 

“Bard - Jaskier - I can walk. You need to sleep,” Geralt told him, moving to stand, still marvelling at his newly healed body.

Jaskier made a noise of agreement and pulled a cloak from his bag for Geralt, who accepted it quickly as the other man stood shakily.

“Come on, you’ll need me to get up to the house,” Jaskier said, without further explanation, shouldering his bag and collecting his lute.

The short walk to Jaskier’s home and the resulting journey up to the living room in the magic cage was spent in exhausted silence. Neither was willing to bring up Geralt’s new mark, though the younger man was sure he had noticed it; he had caught the Witcher pulling his cloak tightly over his chest.

Jaskier sighed. A discussion for tomorrow. He felt as though he could sleep for a solid day, the light coming in the window as they stepped into his main room suggested it was only late afternoon.

Geralt collapsed gratefully onto one of the generously large couches with a satisfied noise. He seemed to settle down as though to sleep, before cracking open one golden eye to stare at Jaskier.

“Roach?”

Jaskier smiled _. Nothing changes_.

“In my stables. She’ll have food and water there,” he assured him. Geralt nodded in satisfaction before closing his eyes deliberately.

The bard shook his head in tired amusement and left him to sleep, making his way on leadened legs to his own bedroom. It took all of his last dregs of energy to ready himself for bed before half fainting onto his own mattress and falling into blissful slumber.

* * *

  
  


Jaskier was woken by the chiming of bells. Soft, low and not insistent, in the note he had selected for the stables. No danger, then.

Geralt probably, checking on Roach, he thought mussily, turning over after waving lazily at the alarm.

Wait. Geralt. _Geralt was here_.

He sat bolt upright in bed as the events of the previous day jolted back into his mind. Healing Geralt, giving him a _lover’s mark._

Jaskier groaned and flopped back down onto the mattress sullenly. He’d had a good life, at least. Geralt would probably get the lute back to Filivandrel, if he asked.

The mage sighed and rolled out of bed, crossing the room and throwing open the doors of his expansive wardrobe.

If Geralt was going to kill him, he was at least going to look good.

It took him less time than it probably should have to choose his outfit. Eventually, he decided on a fetching midnight blue set, embroidered with tiny golden stars, paired with a stark white undershirt. Surveying himself critically in his mirror, he gave a single short nod, and, resigned to his fate, made his way into his living room.

The sunlight pouring in through the windows told him it was already midday, so Jaskier set about collecting simple luncheon foods from his pantry. He had just finished moving the meal out onto a cleverly concealed veranda as Geralt came through the door.

He raised an eyebrow as the Witcher straightened his clothes, which he had clearly retrieved from Roach’s saddlebags.

“It’s an easy climb.”

It wasn’t.

Jaskier shook his head as Geralt followed him out to the veranda, where he poured them both a tankard of mead.

The two men sat in silence as they ate, both aware of the hurts and secrets that stretched uncomfortably between them.

It was, surprisingly, Geralt who broke first.

“I was wrong,” he began as Jaskier looked at him in surprise. “For blaming everything on you. I…” Geralt swallowed. “I didn’t know how to have people who cared about me then.”

“And you do now?” Jaskier challenged.

The Witcher nodded. “Ciri, and Yen. Sometimes. When she doesn’t hate me.”

The bard snorted before registering the other name.

“Ciri, your Child Surprise? Where is she?” He asked, eyes on the other man’s face. Geralt’s expression softened.

“Kaer Morhen. She’s training with Yennefer and my old mentor, for now.”

Jaskier winced in sympathy for the young girl. He didn’t doubt that either teacher would produce anything less than a talented warrior woman, but he assumed that neither had qualms about using harsh methods to get there. _Poor Ciri_.

“So that’s where you’re headed then, back to Kaer Morhen?” He questioned, covering the tightness of his throat with a swallow of mead. Of course, Geralt would be keen to leave. To return to his child and, whatever Yennefer was to him.

Geralt shook his head softly.

“I’ll stay for a while. With you. I,” the man’s mouth curled up into an ironic smile. “I was looking for you, when I heard about the Ifrit. There were rumours of you settling here.”

“Me? Why?” Jaskier’s voice was filled with shock and a little disbelief. He cast a look at Geralt and noticed a flash of regret across his face.

“To apologise. To try and make it right, if you’d let me,” Geralt gave a small smile. 

Jaskier felt a twist of guilt in his chest. Involuntarily his eyes darted to Geralt’s chest, where the lover’s mark would lay forever.

“Geralt, the mark on your chest. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I -” Jaskier panicked, standing from his seat. The Witcher stood immediately in response, shaking his head and holding out his hands in a bid to calm Jaskier.

“I know what it is, bard. I didn’t think that anyone could feel that for a Witcher,” Geralt told him, sadly. Jaskier felt a rush of anger at the teachings of Kaer Morhen and the rumours spread about Witchers.

“I didn’t think you could still feel as I do.”

Jaskier’s anger left him as suddenly as it came as he stared in frozen hope at Geralt. The older man raised a calloused hand to cup his cheek as he stood, mind spinning wildly.

“Jaskier?”

The sound of his name from Geralt’s lips, softer and more tender than he had ever hoped to hear, roused Jaskier from his moment of stillness. He launched himself, without a thought, towards the Witcher, crushing their mouths together desperately.

Geralt pulled him closer, hands fisting in his hand as they kissed. Decades of unfulfilled longing dissipated as their lips met and their hands roamed unabashedly. Eventually they parted, both panting.

“You could have picked something better than a chrysanthemum, bard,” Geralt teased him, pressing their foreheads together gently.

Jaskier made an affronted noise, abruptly silenced by the press of Geralt’s mouth on his, as they continued to kiss in the soft sunlight surrounded by the vibrant riot of flowers on Jaskier’s veranda.

Geralt pointedly decided not to mention that the flowers had certainly not been there before. At least, not until he had taken the bard to bed. They had too many years to make up first.


End file.
